Greene and Holmes
by DaughterofDuck
Summary: Miss Greene moves into 221C and meets our Baker Street Boys and for once Sherlock finds himself at a bit of a loss. She doesn't react like the goldfish, as his brother loves to call them, usually react to him. Of course there's also the problem of the illusive Moriarty. Starting shortly after 'The Blind Banker'. Sherlock/OC.
1. Greene and Holmes

He was bored.

Sherlock sat in his chair by the fireplace, violin in hand. It had been two weeks since 'the blind banker' case, as John had coined it in his drafts. He'd solved a smattering of other cases but they had been all exceedingly dull, their solutions so straight forward even the police department would have gotten there eventually.

His latest experiment had come to an end and he was waiting on the eyeballs to dry out before he began his next. He estimated it would take at least three more days, provided Mrs Hudson would desist from opening the bathroom window to 'let some air in.'

In short, there was nothing to do.

He was absentmindedly plucking at the strings of his violin when a large van pulled up outside. It was carrying a heavy load by the sound the tires made as it stopped. A woman got out and walked up to the door of 221 Baker Street. Mrs Hudson walked quickly to the door. She was expecting whoever it was.

She'd managed to get a tenant into 221 C.

Sherlock frowned. He'd seen the state of the place, he had had a quick look when he first looked at his flat. It was dingy with very little light coming in from the small windows. It smelt of mildew and had various moldy spots growing on the ceiling. The wallpaper needed repapering, the floor lacked carpet and he had occasionally heard the scuffle of rats down there.

It was practically inhospitable.

Sherlock cast his mind back to see when the woman outside had come to look at the place. It must have happened when he was out but he hadn't noticed the scent of perfume or feminine shampoo, other than Mrs Hudson's, in the hall. The lock on the door was out of sight when coming and going from 221 B, so no chance to notice that the rooms had been unlocked recently.

The front door was opened.

"Oh, hello dear." Mrs Hudson's slight surprise told him she hadn't really expected the woman to show.

"Mrs Hudson." Greeted the woman.

She was from London, born and raised. South East by the sound of it. He thought this was probably the first time she had moved out of the immediate area.

"I'll get the key. Would you like me to put on the kettle?" Mrs Hudson's voice sounded up the stairs as she wittered on.

"No thank you." They'd moved further into the house but left the door open.

Mrs Hudson opened the door to her flat but the woman didn't follow her in. Extra respectful of boundaries. A stern upbringing. She was alone so no close family or friends to help her move. The sound of her tread told him she was wearing heavy boots, not military but from the size of them they were probably men's shoes. She walked lightly though, she was lightweight, skinny and possibly a dancer or trained in some form of martial arts. Martial arts were more likely.

"Are you all alone, Dear?" Mrs Hudson asked coming back out of her flat.

"Yes but I'm perfectly capable, Mrs Hudson." There was a pause. "I got it all in there on my own, I can get it out."

She was very independent. Long term isolation.

"I can go get Sherlock. Sherlock! Sherlock!" She called up the stairs not waiting for a reply.

"That's not necessary."

He sighed as Mrs Hudson made her way up the stairs. The woman on the other hand was still for a second before she turned and made her way back outside to her truck.

"Sherlock. Come and help this nice girl out. She's-"

He interrupted her, finally opening his eyes.

"Moving in downstairs, yes, obviously. She also said she didn't need help." He jumped out of his chair, putting his violin down in the vacancy.

She followed him into the kitchen as he opened the breadbin and pulled out his revolver.

"Oh Sherlock. " She implored taking almost no notice of the firearm.

He thought it over again. He could give her and her stuff a once over, learn everything there was to know about her and find out how long it would be before she left. There was just no possible way she was going to stay for any significant amount of time. Mrs Hudson barely put up with him.

It might even stop him being bored for a second or two.

"I know you're not doing anything. It wouldn't hurt, you know." She carried on.

Sherlock sighed heavily.

"Fine. Fine." He dropped the revolver on the kitchen table.

He stomped down the stairs, while Mrs Hudson thanked him, to show his displeasure even though he was mildly curious. He supposed he should check she wasn't a reporter or some crazed fan. He had those now thanks to John and that idiotic blog of his.

The woman had opened the back of the van and had climbed in, he saw the truck bob as she moved. He put his coat and his scarf on as he got to the bottom of the stairs.

Striding out of 221 Baker Street, Sherlock pulled the lapels of his coat upright and stood at the back of the truck. And was presented with a rather perky bottom. The new tenant was leaning over an armchair rummaging through a box behind it.

Sherlock frowned and cleared his throat to get her attention. She sighed without turning around.

"Sorry. You don't have to help." She apologised but something about the way she said it made him think she didn't care either way.

She pulled the box up and turned to him. She had curly dark auburn hair and strikingly blue eyes. Her bottom lip was slightly swollen from where she had been worrying it. She showed no sign of being nervous about the move so he assumed it was something she did when she concentrated. Her hair had been pulled up into a loose bun, so it would be out of her way no doubt.

She wore a coat much like his own, long, ending below the knee. It was black with pockets at the side that zipped up. It hung heavy and from the weight he guess held a hand full of change but their was the distinct square of an oyster card. Interesting. Most women carried all that in a handbag.

The coat hung open revealing a black t-shirt that read "Peoples Front Of Judea" circling a closed fist. He hoped that wasn't some modern rock band. The way it hung off of her adequate if small breasts told him in was a mans t-shirt. Her jeans were made for women though. They were old and although they were supposed to be skinny, they were slightly baggy on her. At least one size too big.

She had tucked them into her hiking boots, which were made for men as he had correctly deduced. They were newish, maybe six months old, the leather still shiny in places but the soles were worn, telling him she did a lot of walking and usually wore the same boots. They weren't overly dirty though. She had defiantly never worn them on a hike. No, urban travel.

She didn't wear any perfume but he could smell shampoo from her freshly washed hair. It was a bland smell, almost chemical. This wasn't a woman who had a thousand and one different products cluttering up her bathroom. She didn't wear any make up either.

Her nails were cut short and had squared off from years at a computer typing. A very pale complexion told him she didn't go outside very often and if she did it was more likely to happen at night. She worked indoors then probably at a computer. The slight darkness under her eyes spoke to late nights and little sleep.

"Vieve." She said.

Sherlock looked at her puzzled. She let out a snigger.

"It's my name." She clung the cardboard box to her chest. "Are you getting out of the way?"

He realised she wanted to step out of the truck and moved to give her room.

"Sherlock." He told her as she stepped down beside him.

She nodded and turned away back to the house. She was as slender as he had predicted but she was tall, of a height with him. She moved rather gracefully and controlled. He was right about her training aswell. The more he deduced the less likely dance was as an option.

He went to grab the closest box so he could follow her.

"Not that one." She called over her shoulder before he could lift it. "To the left."

He frowned again. She hadn't even turned back around. He tried to stubbornly lift it but it was full to the brim with books and he could hardly shift it. Sherlock glanced over her belongings.

The armchair was large and well padded with a black cotton covering that was clearly detachable and machine washable. A lamp stood up right in one dark corner of the van. It was about five feet tall and bent over with a metal spherical shade pointing the light downwards. There was a brown kitchen table hidden among the boxes and a metal single bed frame in pieces leaning to one side.

The single bed was odd. She was at least twenty five. Why would she still be sleeping in a single bed?

He deduced most of the boxes must be books to make up the weight the van was carrying. She was a book lover then. Didn't seem the type to be reading trashy romance novels. She was too practical for that.

Sherlock grabbed the box she had suggested. The clunking noise told him it was pots, pans and her cutlery. He followed her back inside. 221 C was pretty much the same as he remembered but Mrs Hudson had scrubbed the windows in preparation and he detected a faint whiff of bleach coming from the direct of the loo. It was still awfully drab.

Vieve didn't seem to notice. She walked through to the bedroom to put her box down. He put his box on the kitchen counter. She came back out and walked back to the van with only a brief glance in his direction. He opened his box to find one cooking pot, one frying pan, three white dinner plates with yellow swirls around the edge, three side plates of the same design and three sets of knives, forks and spoons.

She didn't often have company and even then probably only one person at a time.

Instead of following her out he went to her bedroom and looked into the already open box sitting in the corner. A stuffed fox sat in one corner looking slightly dirty, old and battered. Childish and sentimental. Next was a striped black and grey metal tin. It was about five inches by nine inches. It wasn't locked so he flicked the catch and looked inside. A few foreign coins although he doubted she'd ever left the country, a party popper with the streamers poked back in, a worn football medal from her primary school years most likely, a few ticket stubs to classical music concerts and a cheap glass block with a bouquet of flowers and the words 'I love you' etched into the middle. It took him a moment to realise what the tin of useless odds and ends were. Keepsakes.

He rolled his eyes abit but continued his snooping. He pulled out the faux leather bound book that was stuffed up one side. There was no title so he opened the book to find her messy script. It was a diary. The dates were marked across the top of the page. He skimmed it.

She was a proof reader. Editors sent her all kinds of things to go through and check for spelling and grammar. She worked from home. Wrote fanfiction. Practised her Krav Maga and read essays on a wide variety of subjects just for fun. Her parents were dead. She was an only child. She had an elderly grandmother who wasn't all there.

It felt a bit like cheating but it ultimately saved time. He didn't have to wait to unpack every box. He stuffed it back in.

The last item was a handbag. He knew she had to have one. All women do. He unzipped the top of the no-name, black leather bag expecting to find her phone, her address book or planner, tampons and half a dozen other things a woman never left the house without in his experience. Instead he found two pink vibrators, twelve ribbed condoms, six cherry flavoured, a bottle of what claimed to be 'sensitizing lubricant' and two small boxes of feminine wipes.

Sherlock stood to his full height as if repulsed by the items within the bag. He felt his mind go slightly blank.

Then he heard a giggle from the doorway. Vieve was standing there leaning against the doorframe. He'd missed her coming back and he didn't know how long she had been watching him. That was insufferably foolish of him. Truthfully he hadn't cared if she caught him snooping, maybe it would get her to leave quicker.

But he hadn't been expecting to find something so...

She wasn't embarrassed at all. She just looked at him in amusement. Sherlock looked from her back to the intimate items in the bag.

"Erm..." His frustratingly blank mind gave him nothing.

"Are you done?" She nodded to the box.

He had looked at everything in there. Determined she was athletic, clever, slightly sentimental if not very interested in romance and very... Sensual. No that term denoted interest. Passionate. Better. He had no further need or inclination to look back in the box so he nodded at her.

"Are you going to help me with the rest or do you have everything you need?" She had an expectant expression now that he wasn't sure what to make of.

Why wasn't she kicking him out? Or shouting at him? Or threatening to call the police? Or telling Mrs Hudson that she wouldn't be staying after all? They were all things he expected she might do. Instead she just stood in the doorway waiting to decide if he was done with her.

"I have everything I need." He answered in his usual cool manner.

She wasn't fazed. Vieve just turned around and went back to moving her things into the dingy apartment that was 221 C Baker Street. Sherlock followed and watched her for a brief moment from the hallway before making his way back up the stairs.

Mrs Hudson was back in her own apartment, no doubt making the tea Vieve had declined. He supposed it was short for Genevieve. Unless her parents had liked the shortening better. It was a possibility. He would have to snag some mail or check her ID.

Settling in his chair, he listened to her go back and forth with boxes. She struggled with the armchair and Sherlock heard her grunt as she put it on its corner to fit it through the door. It wasn't very heavy, more air and padding than anything else. It was the size of the thing that was giving her trouble.

With his eyes closed and his head lent back on his chair, he watched her in his minds eye. Followed her journey from truck to flat, trying to identify what was in each box by the sound it made and how heavy it was. He listened to her footsteps and gauged which room she put the boxes down in.

Annoyingly, he couldn't get the bag and the items inside out of his head. It wasn't as though he hadn't seen that kind of thing before. Something of the like had been found at a crime scene once. It wasn't of import but some of the idiot policemen had made some jokes about the female murder suspect. He'd mostly deleted it all. The case hadn't even been that interesting.

Unbidden an image popped into his head of Vieve. She was naked on her strange single bed as he stood at the foot. She had the larger of the two vibrators between he legs and her right hand moved it in and out as the other moved down her stomach.

Sherlock pushed the image from his mind and locked it away.

Women were a distraction. Too easily swayed by the emotional. And he was not an emotional man. Rationality was all he cared about. Cold calculating logic. A moves to B and then C. He didn't have time for such bestial things like... Sex. And it wouldn't be just that of course. All those sticky emotions he didn't quite understand would follow.

Sherlock took his violin off his lap, stood up and began playing loudly in the hopes of washing out the sound of Vieve below his feet. If he kept it up for a few hours maybe she would stop unpacking and go elsewhere.

John arrive home two hours later. He'd been on a date. It didn't go well. Sherlock didn't have to turn round to know this. It was all in his heavy step.

"A tenant moved in downstairs." John said as he put his keys and phone on the desk and shrugged off his jacket, laying it over the sofa.

He was vaguely amazed John had noticed but he knew the van was still parked outside. It was very obvious. Still he said nothing. He didn't want to talk about her.

"You were here. Who is it?" He asked Sherlock's back.

Sherlock sighed almost inperceptively but carried on playing. What did it matter? She would be gone soon. He played the violin at all hours of the night, he shot at the wall, there were often shouting matches and irate clients. He still wasn't completely sure John would stay very long. After John had shot the serial killer and then hung around at the crime scene as though nothing had happened, Sherlock knew he'd be around for a while, but that wasn't forever.

John was a junkie like him really. But he was addicted to the danger. The thrill of the chase. Sherlock's lifestyle gave him what he needed.

"Come on." John insisted. "I know you must know everything there is. Tell me."

What did he want to know? The plain boring stuff? She is a woman, John, of approximately twenty five years of age, Caucasian, five' nine'', maybe seven and a half stone, curly auburn hair, blue eyes. Did he want to know about her job and her lack of a social life?

Part of Sherlock wanted to talk about how she'd barely looked twice at him and how she hadn't wittered on. Usually it was all people did. They talked and talked and it gave him an opening to tell them everything about themselves. She hadn't given him a chance.

He wanted to prod at her poor body image and the eating disorder in her teens that she still sometimes struggles with. She was, what the ordinary people might call, pretty. She had a symmetrical face and a clear complexion. Her body was in proportion. What more could she want?

John would probably frown at this trail of thought and start talking about emotions or some such babble.

Her behaviour was odd though. She'd been quick, too quick. Predicted which box he would go to move. She hadn't turned around. Why would that thought even enter her pathetic little mind? And it had seemed as though she had expected him to be going through her stuff. Had she read his intent?

Sherlock went over her reactions again. She was three milliseconds quicker in reaction time than the average human. What did that mean?

Sherlock stopped playing and turned to his roommate abruptly.

"Give me your phone." He demanded.

"What? Why? Use yours, it's right there." John pointed at Sherlock's phone which was sitting on the table next to him.

"I don't have Mycroft's number." Sherlock held out his hand.

He had deleted it in a fit of childishness, but he wasn't going to give in. He knew the number by heart anyway what was the point in having it on his phone too?

"You want to call Mycroft?" John frowned at him but still made no move to hand over his phone.

"Your phone, John." When he finally made movements to pick it up, Sherlock put his violin down.

He grabbed it from his hand and swiftly exited the house, leaving John calling, asking where he was going. Sherlock wasn't taking the chance of being overheard. He threw on his coat and scarf and after checking Vieve was still in her apartment, proceeded out the door.

He didn't bother with a taxi and just started walking. Sherlock unlocked John's phone and went through the numbers. Clicking Mycroft's name, he held the phone to his ear and listened to it ring. He picked up after the fifth. Like always.

"Dr Watson." His brother's cool voice slid down the line.

That meant he wasn't under surveillance at this moment.

"I want her out of there."

There was a momentary pause that told Sherlock Mycroft was surprised he'd called.

"What ever are you talking about, brother mine?" Mycroft asked.

Sherlock grit his teeth.

"Do not play games. Your agent. I want her out in an hour."

It was the most plausible explanation. She was a plant. Mycroft had told her what to do and what he'd do.

"My agent?" Mycroft sounded amused. "You don't mean the woman who moved into 221 C, do you?"

Sherlock listened as Mycroft opened a file on his desk. He could hear him leafing through. It wasn't a very big file.

"She's an odd one, I'll admit, but not one of mine." His brother continued.

Sherlock frowned. If she wasn't Mycroft's why had he allowed her to move in? Didn't he get a warning at least?

"Whose then?" Had her accent fooled him?

He'd been so sure. Russian? North Korean? One of the many Middle Eastern groups? He knew most of the operatives placed in London, she'd have to be relatively new to field work.

"No ones. There was a plan in place to tap her but then she had a nasty breakdown. Too erratic."

A breakdown. She hadn't seemed unstable. Good hygiene. She'd organised her move. She was, perhaps, overly controlled.

"What kind of breakdown?" Sherlock had to assume the eating disorder wouldn't be enough to constitute mental instability.

"There aren't alot of details in the file. She didn't seek psychological help." Sherlock could tell Mycroft was analysing him.

"Send me the file." Sherlock said deciding to end the conversation.

He turned round and begun walking back to Baker Street. A middle aged business man running late for his 'date' with an escort passed him. He was in town on business and left his wife, three children and a border collie back in Manchester. Sherlock deleted this information.

"Why? Genevieve Charlotte Green is hardly of consequence." Sherlock could imagine his brother's patronizing smirk.

She was a Genevieve then. Sherlock couldn't help as the corners of his mouth twitched. It was good to be right. Still his brother's remark annoyed. If she refused to move out he would be forced to interact with her. That was of consequence.

"Just send me the file Mycroft." Sherlock hung up.

He pushed the door open with a huff. He paused momentarily. She was still in there moving about. She was cleaning by the smell. Chemical lemon and bleach. It was already gone eleven. Didn't ordinary people go to sleep soon? Mrs Hudson was in bed.

She didn't go to bed until half past five in the morning and rose at twelve. Sherlock had spent most of the night in his mind palace before scanning the inbox on his website. Some of it was fan mail which he deleted without reading. Most of the cases were boring and inane. Children kept writing to him about missing pets. John had told him 'your pet is dead, buy a new one' was not an acceptable response so he ignored them aswell.

Around one o clock he found a case that had a possibility of being interesting.


	2. Meeting Mycroft

No matter how many times John asked, Sherlock ignored him every time he inquired about the new tenant downstairs. Instead he'd asked Mrs Hudson, who told him she was a beautiful young woman who worked from home. John had wondered how long she would be staying. Or rather how long she could put up with Sherlock.

He thought about whether he should 'meet' her in the hall or whether to just wait. They were bound to bump into each other sooner or later.

Sherlock dragged him off on a case and for a time the mysterious woman of 221 C was almost forgotten. So when he followed Sherlock in and found a woman in her pyjamas in the hall, he was momentarily shocked. Her curly ginger hair was falling out of the loose bun on top of her head. Her pyjamas were blue, fuzzy and slightly too big for her. On her feet were a pair of ridiculous fluffy penguin slippers.

John thought she was adorable.

She gave them both a half smile, briefly flickering her eyes over him then meeting Sherlock's gaze momentarily. She was holding a bin bag in one hand while she riffled through the other one.

"Hi." She greeted them.

"Genevieve." Sherlock replied sounding mildly disgusted.

John pulled his eyes off the beautiful woman in front of him to shoot his roommate a glare as he walked up the stairs. He was about to apologise but it seemed Genevieve hadn't noticed his rudeness.

"I'm John." He held out his hand.

She looked at it before she took it, shaking his hand gingerly. "Vieve."

"Vieve." He repeated smiling. "So you just moved in."

John nodded at the door and watched her follow his gaze. When she turned back she was frowning slightly as though confused.

"Is that a statement or a question?" She asked him seriously. "Because I think its fairly obvious."

Sherlock laughed from the apartment above as John gapped like a fish. Had he never met Sherlock, it probably would have taken longer for him to come up with a response. But he had and so some part of him was able to see her point.

"It was just small talk." John shrugged.

She looked back at the open bag and put her arm in it again.

"Ah ha! I found it!" Vieve smiled as she pulled a fridge magnet out of the bag. " Bins are out back, aren't they?"

John nodded and she turned and headed out the back door without so much as a good bye. He shook his head and went up the stairs to find Sherlock staring out of the window behind his chair.

"What do you think, John?" He asked without turning round.

John could only assume he was taking about Vieve.

"Bit odd I suppose." He sighed and collapsed into his chair. "But then I didn't really talk to her."

"You had plenty of time." Sherlock scoffed at him.

John rolled his eyes. Of course he had. He should have know her profession from the crease in the pyjama top. Or her mother's star sign by the way she wiggled her nose. He huffed.

"I don't know. She didn't make very much eye contact." Sherlock turned to watch him.

John tried to look back and see what Sherlock must have seen.

"Her pyjamas were a bit..." John tried to find the word. "Childish?"

He huffed sinking further into his chair and getting properly relaxed.

What was there really? She was just some young thing not interested in the two old blokes who lived upstairs. She probably thought what everyone seemed to think. That him and Sherlock were a couple. Even if he set her straight, he didn't have a chance. Probably wasn't a good idea with her living downstairs anyway. Even though she was the prettiest girl he'd seen in awhile. He had Sarah anyway.

Sherlock huffed.

"Get your mind out the gutter and read that." And he threw a file into John's lap.

He frowned but flipped it open. What drew his eye instantly was the surveillance photo of his downstairs neighbour. It had been taken a few years ago but it was difficult to tell how long. The sheet of paper the image was attached to read like a resume, listing the base details of Genevieve Charlotte Green's life.

"Why do you have a file on her?" John asked looking up at Sherlock, trying to keep his voice down.

Sherlock gave him a frustrated huff and rolled his eyes. For a spit second John thought he wasn't going to get an answer.

"She was almost one of Mycroft's underlings. Just read the file, John." Sherlock turned his back on him and picked up his violin.

John had noticed a marked up take in his playing. He had a suspicion it was a half arsed attempt to drive out the new tenant.

Hesitantly, he looked away from his roommate and read through the top page of the file. He was right about her being much too young for him. She would be twenty five next month. Her father had been a Major, career military. It looked like it ran in the family. He'd been gunned down in Afghanistan when she was fifteen. Lost her mother two years later. She had one elderly grandmother.

She'd been statemented at five with autism. There was some medical jargon he didn't understand having never studied the special needs part of medicine.

She made top marks in everything, even her suddenly becoming an orphan hadn't seemed to effect her work. John didn't think he'd ever seen that many A*'s but then again he hadn't seen Sherlock's report card either. She completed six A levels in her sixth form years, all with top marks. Turning the page again he read how she was accepted into a pretty great University studying English literature.

Then it began to read more like a series of memos.

They were thinking about whether to nudge her into taking a different course. They were going to snap her up to be an analyst. A cryptologist. He knew from Sherlock that meant code breaking and the like.

Before they could make their move however it all fell apart. The next page was a medical file. A psychologists report. The British secret service (or MI5 or Mycroft himself maybe) had had a doctor watch the surveillance tapes and diagnose her. As a doctor himself, if not one of the mind, he couldn't help but see the error in that. They hadn't even talked to her.

What they saw was undeniably not good though. It seemed she was doing some research for an essay. She began sleeping less. Then hygiene and nutriment went out the window too. She didn't leave her flat. She began writing on the walls and rambling. A neighbour had called an ambulance when he saw her passed out though the window.

The next report was from her week stay at the hospital. Dehydration, exhaustion and delirium. There was a note saying she had written a poem on her stomach in permanent ink. She'd had a paradoxical reaction to any form of sedation and had been between rambling and non-verbal almost her whole stay. She'd been signed out into a friend's care.

The file stopped there. Clearly the secret service had had no use for her after that.

He looked up at Sherlock who was still playing. John was trying to get his head around the fact that the girl he'd just met downstairs was the same one described in the file he'd just read.

"I still don't get why I'm reading this." John said once he was finished.

He was somewhat used to his flatmate airing everyone's dirty laundry. It was how he knew about Anderson and Donovan's affair, although they weren't very discreet. It's how he knew Lestrade's marriage was on the rocks and Sherlock predicted it would all fall apart within nine months. He had been thankful Sherlock hadn't said that to the Detective Inspector's face.

But this was different. John could easily see Mycroft having files on all of them. He probably knew what toothpaste John used. But Sherlock? This seemed almost excessive for him.

"Interesting, isn't it?" Sherlock spun round to look at John, abruptly halting mid-melody.

John frowned. Sherlock thought she was interesting? Since when did he find anything other than a murder or an experiment interesting. People were either stupid and boring or stupid and annoying. John looked down at the closed file in his lap.

"You think she's interesting?" John tried to think what would make her different from everyone else.

She was clever. Was that it? There must be other clever people.

"What?" Sherlock was momentarily perplexed and then he seemed exasperated like he usually did when he thought John was being slow. "No, not her. This breakdown that she seems to have pulled herself out from. It's interesting, isn't it?"

John frowned back down at the file. While that made a little more sense in the Sherlock world of thinking, he still didn't get it. People had breakdowns. It happened. John remembered a time not so long ago when staring at the four walls of his flat was starting to make him lose his mind. The nightmares, the tremors, the limp; it had all gone away once he began living with the detective.

A thought popped into his head that made his stomach jolt uncomfortably.

"You're not going to... Try to trigger this kind of state again, are you?" He asked holding up the file.

John kept a lid on the temper flaring up inside of him. Even Sherlock wouldn't be that cruel to risk another's mental health. That wasn't where this was going. He wasn't planning to experiment to their new downstairs neighbour.

"Hmmm." Sherlock hummed like John had just given him an idea.

"No. You're not." John said sternly.

Sherlock huffed, put his violin down before throwing himself in the sofa in an exaggerated manner.

"What triggered it in the first place? You would have to assume that the death of her parents would be more traumatic than writing some paper. Was it some kind of delayed reaction?" Sherlock began talking faster. "Her reaction times are quick. Closer to Mycroft and I than the rest of them..."

He petered off and brought his hands up to rest on his chin, clearly now going through data in his head. John sighed. So it was because she was clever. He didn't seem to like her very much though, if the look he gave her in the hall was anything to go by.

But who knew with Sherlock.

When her new neighbours moved in and began playing loud music and the children started screaming at two in the morning, Vieve had shrugged and gone out and bought more earplugs. When the police came and took one of the teenagers away on drug charges, Vieve had taken very little notice. When the mother started staring and frowning every time Vieve came back from the corner shop, she was confused.

It took her three days to realise that they thought she had been the one to call the police.

Vieve liked rules. They made sense and let you know what to do and what not to do. But laws, she had come to believe, had a little leeway. If her neighbour smoked weed, that was really none of her business. If he was selling it out of his mum's house, well that was up to his mum if he got away with that. No one told her how to live her life, she wasn't about to interfere with others.

The next time Vieve saw her neighbour she tried to explain that fact. She was then accused of being a rude bitch. Clearly, she'd said the wrong thing somehow.

Knowing the situation was likely to escalate, Vieve began looking for a new flat. She didn't really like hers anyway. It was too big really with the two bedrooms. She'd tried to find a roommate but the people she interviewed didn't seem to like her very much. But Vieve was used to that.

When she saw the advert in the paper for 221 C, she almost didn't believe her eyes. A basement flat in central London for a crazily cheap rate. Cheaper even then her old flat across the river, almost out in the sticks. And she'd always wanted a basement flat. It was a mini dream come true.

Mrs Hudson was nice over the phone, even though Vieve hated talking on the phone. It made her nervous and twitchy. She said the place was in a bit of a state, that was why it was so cheap. Still, Vieve had gone to see it and get a better idea of Mrs Hudson.

The flat wasn't as bad as she had expected. She could have it ship shape within a week. Before she had even seen the bedroom she was creating lists in her head. She'd have to wash the walls and floor before getting paint and carpets. Her black out curtains could be reshaped and she'd have a bit over to spare.

Mrs Hudson assured her that the fireplace was in working order and had been cleaned regularly. She was a talker. The whole time she was showing Vieve around she carried the conversation almost single-handedly. After she was done detailing everything Vieve needed to know about the flat, she proceeded to tell her things about 'the boys' upstairs.

Sherlock Holmes and Dr John Watson.

Mrs Hudson warned that they could be quite noisy but Vieve had assured her that wouldn't be a problem. Within three days she had packed up her stuff, given her notice to the landlord and hired a moving truck. But before all that, she googled them.

There was very little on Mrs Hudson but 'the boys upstairs' had a website each. Mr Holmes' the science of deduction was quite interesting and she planned to visit it again when she was surfing. It was almost as good as Wikipedia. Dr Watson's was a blog detailing his and the detectives investigations that read as adventure stories. It was an interesting peak into the lives of her soon to be neighbours.

So when the Sherlock Holmes, worlds only consulting detective, showed up to 'help' she knew he must be scoping her out. It was kind of funny. So she waited for the personal and probably indecent question that he would ask so he could show off how smart he was.

Iraq or Afghanistan indeed?

Instead he went through her box of stuff she really didn't want to lose in the move. Vieve watched him from the door frame as he leafed through her diary. When he opened up her bag she had to stifle a laugh. He jumped back as though there was a bomb or infectious disease inside.

She'd asked if he was done. By the look on his face he wanted to dash out of there in embarrassment but he had too much cool for that. Once all her stuff was inside she locked up the truck, sent a text to the service who would come pick it up and started cleaning her new apartment.

She slept with her mattress on the floor, she could put the bedframe together tomorrow.

Vieve didn't leave her flat for a few days as she got everything settled. She'd brought white paint with her but she needed to find the nearest B&Q's to buy some chalkboard paint. It was another mini dream of hers. To have a chalkboard wall. She was endlessly writing on notes and sticking them to the wall. Now she wouldn't have to.

She briefly met Dr Watson before getting changed and heading out. The nearest station was only a few streets away and from there she had the directions memorised. Before she made it she noticed a black car trailing her.

Conscious of keeping her un-panicked pace, Vieve scanned her path ahead for somewhere to duck in and slip away. It had to have something to do with the detective. Why else would anyone follow her? Was Baker Street being watched?

Before she could take evasive action her mobile began to ring. She didn't stop walking as she pulled it out of her pocket. The screen read unknown caller. She didn't like that. Everyone who might contact her knew to do it by text or email. She had a funny feeling the caller had something to do with the ominous black car.

"Hello?" She answered it.

Just holding the phone to her ear made her shoulder tight. She rolled it to try and quiet the twitch that was already building from one word down the line. It was illogical and annoying but phone calls made her uncomfortable. More so than the black car trailing her path.

"Do you know how many cameras are in your immediate area right now?" A slightly condescending voice said down the phone.

Vieve didn't stop but she did do a quick scan of her surroundings.

"Twelve" It was London and they were approaching a station after all.

There was a slight pause that told her the caller was surprised she was right.

"Check again." The voice said sounding smug.

A brief glimpse up told her everything she need to know. The two camera's across the street on the roof top had swivelled away. So had the one directly in front of her. She didn't need to check the rest. Whoever was on the line was immensely powerful. She didn't have the skills to disappear from his guy.

She stopped walking and the car pulled up beside her.

"Get in." The voice ordered. "See you soon."

The line went dead. The back door to the car was opened by a young, well dressed woman who didn't look up from her phone. Not very threatening but she didn't need to be. The trick with the CCTV was enough. She got in.

The woman joined her in the back but they travelled in silence.

Instead Vieve concentrated on counting turns and keeping there direction in her head. They didn't go very far but as the door opened she made out an abandoned warehouse with deserted surroundings.

The woman started heading for the warehouse and Vieve followed her. She stopped outside a metal door.

"In there." The woman said when Vieve paused at the entrance, still barely looking at her.

When she pushed the door to the factory open she noticed the first two fingers on her right hand were twitching. She had been so focused on keeping her shoulder and neck still she hadn't noticed the errant movement of her digits. Still holding her hands at her sides she began playing Chopin's Etude Op.25 No.1. The notes instantly filled her ears. It was made almost entirely of rapid arpeggios and quickly brought back control over her own hands.

The Warehouse was in semidarkness but she could make out most of it from the light coming through the grimy window. It was almost completely empty

But in the center stood a small round table with a curved wooden chair. They, like the car and the woman who accompanied her, spoke of wealth, power and sophistication. Vieve thought the location spoke of a heightened sense of paranoia. The man on the phone had many, very dangerous enemies.

As she approached the table, footsteps echoed out of the darkness followed by a well dressed, slender man carrying an umbrella. She didn't allow her approach to falter.

There was no seat for him but Vieve did take the seat offered to her. It was supposed to put him at ease. It didn't. Vieve watched his eyes flicker over how her leg was curved round one chair leg, ready to shift it out of her way it someone came at her from behind. When he looked back to her eyes, she carefully concentrated on keeping her focus on the space between his.

It was a trick to make it seem like she was making eye contact. It still made her uncomfortable and she willed herself not to look away.

She wasn't going to make the first move. He was waiting for it. Some question he wouldn't answer. Like who was he? What did he want with her?

But she knew it had to do with Sherlock. She was either a spy or a hostage. He'd make it clear which soon enough.

His study of her was familiar though. She couldn't help how her head tilted to the side as she gave him another once over. The same ice coloured eyes. Same widows peak. Same curvature of the lip.

Oh it was almost funny.

"And what, pray tell, is so humorous, Miss Green?" He finally opened his mouth.

Vieve allowed a twitch of a smirk.

"I knew he had an older sibling. He's the middle one, isn't he?" She watched his face turn to a scowl.

"The youngest. It's just us."

He seemed overly harsh, which Vieve didn't get, so she just shrugged and let her eyes slip over the darkened warehouse surrounding them. They were seemingly alone but she thought he probably had someone watching them through a scope. At least she would if she was as powerful as he seemed.

"So, Sherlock..." She let that hang there, waiting for him to move the conversation along.

There was a pause before Sherlock's older brother spoke again.

"He tends to get himself in... Trouble. I find myself naturally concerned." A smile curled on his lips for the first time since his arrival, but it didn't seem genuine.

"Brotherly affection?"

Vieve was an only child and hadn't had many friends growing up. The bond between siblings had always been a bit of a mystery to her. Even so, she doubted this was all about Sherlock's well being.

"Sentiment is a chemical default found in the losing side." He sneered.

"Whatever he does reflects on you." She understood that well enough.

When she used to live on base, it was made very clear to her that her behaviour could effect her father's career. And she had a feeling Sherlock's brother's job was more important.

He straightened slightly.

"We would offer you a large sum to... Inform us of my brother's comings and goings. Nothing you would feel uncomfortable discussing, I assure you."

She briefly wondered if this was a test. It didn't matter because her answer would be the same either way.

"No. Not only will he know, making the whole thing pointless but what do I need money for? I already make more than I spend." She paused momentarily. "Which you already know."

He gave her one of his seemingly patented creepy smiles. His penetrating gaze didn't leave her throughout there meeting and Vieve felt him marking her every move. She still wasn't sure how close the Holmes brothers were but it was possible him and Sherlock would spend an hour dissecting the whole conversation.

"There must be something." His eyes narrowed slightly.

Was there? She wasn't an ambitious person. When her savings account reached ten grand she donated the excess to charity and had a bit of a splurge on books. The things she wanted were within reach if she tried. She had her dream apartment and a perfect job that didn't take up too much brain power or time, freeing her for her many hobbies.

What did she want that she couldn't get herself?

"I'm good."

And then she waited. She'd let her eyes wander, only glancing at him if necessary, throughout their conversation. Vieve knew he was either going to try to convince her further or let her go.

"Well," He gave a minute shrug. "Tell my assistant where you want to be dropped off."

He tipped his head at her and turned, falling back into the shadow he had come from.

Vieve didn't move from her chair as she considered where to go next. She'd been off on the hunt for paint. Now she wanted to talk to Sherlock. Decision made she left the warehouse.

Anthea was waiting by the car.

"Baker street." She told her and the elusive driver as she got in.

They pulled up around the corner. Vieve snorted and left the car without looking back. Instead of going down the corridor and unlocking her front door, she climbed the stairs for the first time and knocked on the door of 221 B. She heard John's voice through the wood.

"It's open." He called.

That made her pause. Were they expecting someone? Hesitantly she pushed the door open and stuck her head in.

"It's Vieve..." She called out.

Sherlock was sitting in a high-back red armchair next to the empty fireplace, his fingers steepled under his chin. She heard John in the kitchen. He came back into the living room, probably knowing she would get no acknowledgement from Sherlock.

"Hi." John gave her a surprised but warm smile.

"Hey erm..." Vieve shrugged and decided to just ask. "Does your brother kidnap everyone you meet and try to bribe them?"

Sherlock looked up at her briefly before turning to John.

"Told you, you should have noticed the resemblance."

John just huffed and tuned back to her giving her a once over. Some doctor-ish concern hung in his eyes.

"I'm fine." She reassured.

And she was. She supposed most people might be a bit freaked out by what had happened to her. Vieve was just curious.

"Good. That's good." John shrugged. "I just imagine Mycroft can be a little imitating to a..."

He seemed to be looking for a word that wouldn't hurt her feelings. She decided to help him out.

"Civie?" She smirked.

He pulled a face. She wasn't sure what it was but she thought he agreed with her so she shrugged before turning her attention back to Sherlock. While she had been taking in John's jumpers and how his military stance had strengthened the second she said civie, Sherlock had turned and begun studying her.

"Only child. Deceased parents. Happened in your teens. Father in the army but unlike most army brats you weren't moved around all over the place. No, you spent your entire childhood in South East London. Never very close with your parents. Never had many friends but you're fine with that. Your grades were all you cared about. And you did well until..." The more he spoke the quicker the deductions came.

"Sherlock!" John scolded, willing him to shut up but Sherlock gave no indication that he heard him.

Vieve watched him in all his glory. Sherlock's eyes were sparkling and she found that she was holding eye contact without the building pressure behind them. He leapt out of his seat moving closer to her and she got the feeling he wished to circle her like a cat who had trapped a mouse. It was the reaction that normally would have built in others but not her.

"... University. Had some kind of breakdown. Dropped out before the year started." There was something there he didn't understand; his eyes narrowed slightly as though he might see the answers more clearly. " _Got better_. You got a job that you don't need to leave the house to do, further isolating yourself. People make you uncomfortable. You don't like eye contact, yet you've kept mine..?"

He trailed off and the pressure began behind her eyes, forcing her to shift to his pursed cupid bow lips.

John huffed, drawing their attention back to him. Both had almost forgotten his presence in the room. Sherlock retreated back to his chair and out of her personal space. John was looking at her with big eyes, which she guessed was some kind of silent apology for Sherlock.

But Vieve wasn't offended. Most of it was true. She never understood why people got upset by other people just saying true stuff. It was usually what got her into trouble.

"Did you say all that now because you've got an audience?" It was only thing she didn't get.

Why now? And not when they'd first met. John seemed to be the obvious factor. But maybe he would have if he hadn't been so embarrassed.

He scrunched up his face.

"No. I just didn't want to get sucked into helping you unpack. Which you still haven't finished." Trying to throw the attention off himself.

He knew. He must have. Even John must have known. The whole place stunk off the white emulsion she'd used two days ago. Still she said it because the conversation called for her to do so.

"I'm still decorating. The place was a bit of a state." She shrugged.

There was pause. John was looking at her with an expression that resembled a guppy somewhat.

"Weren't you making tea, John?" Sherlock's clipped question seemed to reboot him.

John shuffled into the kitchen and Vieve hesitantly stepped further into their living room so she could follow his movement. She felt Sherlock watch her in her peripherals.

"Did you want one, Vieve?" John called through.

"No thank-you." She didn't drink tea.

"Do have a seat and stop hovering." Sherlock hissed.

Vieve briefly looked to the sofa to check it was clear. It was. She perched there and let her eyes wander the room. Two large bookcases, stuffed full with books, sat either side of the fireplace. She spotted quite a few editions that she, herself, owned. The desk was covered in papers. They were too far away to read but she assumed they were case files.

John came back in carrying two cups of tea, one of which he put in front of Sherlock. The detective ignored it.

"I was going to order a Chinese." John said conversationally to the room. "Would you like to join us?"

Food was a bit of an issue with Vieve. At her old house (and really her whole life since she had never moved so far before) she had only ever ordered from the same places. And she always ordered the same thing. A portion of chicken balls with sweet and sour sauce with egg fried rice on the side for Chinese. A medium Peperoni pizza with cheese stuffed crust from the pizza place. Bombay potatoes, Chicken tikka masala and a garlic naan from the Indian.

She had planned to spend an afternoon researching all the take outs in the area, touring the restaurants to check the food and cleanliness of the premises and finally settling on the three places she would eat from for the rest of her time at 221 C Baker Street.

But the mention of food seemed to remind her body that she hadn't eaten anything yet today. A quick glance out the window told her it was at least half six.

Her discomfort at the situation was already making her shoulder tight. She wanted to roll it and throw out her arm. Probably multiple times.

Instead she pulled her shoulder tighter against her and replied with her best calm voice.

"Yes, please. What are you having?"

Sherlock was watching her again. He'd probably picked up on her tension. If he asked, she'd tell him. It didn't matter to her. He probably knew already.

John listed his and Sherlock's usual order.

"Not hungry." Sherlock interrupted but John only gave him a warning glances that clearly said, even to Vieve, that he was definitely going to eat.

She gave her order and decided to eat whatever they brought her. John insisted on paying for hers aswell. She asked him if he was sure twice before Sherlock huffed and said John was sure.

The night was pleasant, as was, it turned out, the food. Vieve made a mental note and planned to find her own menu to put in the takeout menu and odds-n-ends basket.

John carried most of the conversation, getting her laughing at his personal tale of meeting Sherlock and Mycroft for the first time. It was different from his blog; Mycroft had been completely left out of that. Even Sherlock chipped in if only mostly to correct John or to go into detail about some point of interest in the case.

Vieve finished her giggle with a sigh and popped her last piece of chicken ball in her mouth.

"The story's much funnier in person." At John's frown she elaborated. "I found your blog before I moved in."

Sherlock huffed and rolled his eyes.

"You're not going to ask about the solar system, are you?" Sherlock melodramatically threw an arm over his eyes and tipped his head back on his chair.

She knew instantly what he was talking about. She remembered everything she'd ever read, and most of her life from around the age of five, so Vieve could have recited the whole blog right then if she had wished.

 _'Sherlock sees through everyone and everything in seconds. What's incredible though is how spectacularly ignorant he is about some things. He could tell you where you went to school and what you had for breakfast by your shirt but ask him who the Prime Minister is or whether the Sun revolves around the Earth and he couldn't give you an answer on pain of death.'_

Those things could be considered irrelevant. It was slightly mind boggling how he had managed to avoid such knowledge but she thought no less of him.

"No." She shrugged one shoulder.

Sherlock looked up at her in a jolt. He was frowning. She frowned back in question.

"What did you think?" John asked pulling her attention back to him.

He was smiling but Vieve thought he looked a bit nervous. She hesitated.

Was this one of those times she was supposed to lie and sugar-coat her view? Or did he want her honest opinion and critic? Obviously she paused too long. John sat back in his chair, turning slightly pink.

"You didn't like it?" He gave a self effacing snort.

"No, it's not that." She rushed to disagree.

Asking him which he wanted kind of defeated the lie. Rolling her shoulder slightly, Vieve opted for the truth.

"It was good. I liked it. It's written well enough for a blog. I mean you don't have to worry about flowery prose or elaborate metaphor. It's just..." John nodded for her to continue, his eyes widening fractionally.

Her eyes flickered over to Sherlock, who had folded his arm back over his eyes.

"You were a little mean. About him." She finished scrunching her nose up slightly.

She hoped John didn't take it to offence. Or make Sherlock mad for fighting his battles. But she had felt a little stung for him.

Vieve knew that it was more about her really. She was odd. She preferred Neural A-typical. Autistic, for polite morons. But she'd been called a lot worse. And the more time she spent with him, the more she came to believe that Sherlock Homes, the world's only consulting detective, was a little bit like her.

Sherlock lifted his arm to frown at her again. She was beginning to believe it was because he couldn't seem to predict her.

"What?" John asked but he didn't seem defensive.

"I think spectacularly ignorant is an over statement." She shrugged again, hoping to lessen any hard feelings. "Who cares who's the Prime Minister. Especially since I'm guessing it's really run by his brother and a few others that never appear on the TV or in newspapers."

Sherlock smirked. John gapped slightly. Then he began to chuckle.


	3. Of Observations and Distractions

Genevieve Charlotte Green was not the distraction he had orgionally assumed she would be. Sherlock solved cases and conducted experiments like he always had. But when he finished a task he found his mind would begin to ponder her.

He didn't see her all that often. Sherlock listened to her move around her flat mostly. He listened to her music, which never crept to a level that might annoy or disturb them or Mrs Hudson. He occasionally watched her leave 221 Baker street through his window when she went to retrieve food shopping. It was the only regular time she left the house.

When she opened her front door and carried out cardboard boxes into the hall at three thirty in the morning, two weeks after she had moved in, Sherlock knew she had finished unpacking. He hadn't been down there since the day she moved in. He had been waiting for this.

Someone's house was a representation of the people living within it. Sometimes more so than their person. The night he met John Watson, he broke into his flat while he slept and investigated his soon-to-be new roommate in more detail.

Now her flat was in order, Sherlock had his chance to get a better peek at the inner workings of her brain. Because he had to know. What was it about her that drew him?

John had gone to bed hours ago and was sound asleep. He would be getting up at seven to get ready for his god awful day job. When he finally heard the faint squeak of her metal bedframe an hour later he knew he would have to wait a while for her to fall asleep. It didn't give him very much time.

In the end, Sherlock found he could only wait forty five minutes before he found himself creeping down the stairs, lock picking kit in hand.

The lock on the door was the same as before and he broke in almost painfully quickly. It wasn't a very secure lock at all. Sherlock wondered if he should tell her. It would just make it more difficult for him to break in again. On the other hand, he did attract less than savoury characters, her flat should probably be as secure as she could make it.

The sun hadn't risen yet, but even if it had, Vieve's flat would still have been shrouded in darkness thanks to her heavy, black, black-out curtains. Sherlock paused in the doorway to let his eyes adjust. Slowly the sliver of light from a streetlamp outside lit his way.

Almost every wall was covered in bookshelves. The living room was practically a private library. He estimated something close to four thousand books. The only wall left clear was directly to his right, across from the thin windows. Brushing his hand along it, he felt the chalkboard paint and the lingering chalk dust. She wrote on the wall. He'd have to find a excuse to come back during the day to have a better look.

The single armchair sat in the middle of the room, facing the fireplace. Her laptop sat on the seat and the standing lamp sat curved over the back of the seat. The dining table was pushed against a bookshelf; it was set up like a desk with her PC and a pot for pens. There were no personal photographs. There was however a UV lamp designed for people with Seasonal Affective Disorder. She clearly used it because of her practically nocturnal habits and lack of Vitamin D. The whole space was, again, very practical. The books were the only thing that stopped the place being sparse.

The collection was the next thing he concentrated on. It was a picture of organised chaos.

Starting on his left, the books were thankfully sorted by genre. Biology, Neurology, Genetics, Evolution, palaeoanthropology the list went on moving into Physics, Astronomy and Math. Her Chemistry section was sorely lacking. She seemed to concentrate on where chemistry became Biology with enzymes and proteins becoming cells. Mostly theoretical at this point.

Even when he found the collection moving on to the social sciences he couldn't find it in himself to be anything more than mildly disappointed. Her philosophy section was over large.

Did she often ponder the meaning to life?

That seemed almost too romantic for her. She had a lot of books on religion including many religious texts, not all of them translated into English. Good with languages. He added it to the growing list of things he knew about her.

Sherlock hadn't deleted any of it yet. Not until he had solved her.

The last book shelf was made up of fiction. It began with the classics: Shakespeare, Dickens, DH Lawrence. She owned 5000 leagues under the sea, Secret Garden and Wind in the Willows. A few texts were in Russian, most post-revolution era. Then they grew more modern. It was eclectic really.

Tucked between one bookshelf and the next was a rolled up piece of material. Frowning, Sherlock pulled it out and unrolled it. He couldn't tell what it was for.

The material was rough, made for covering cushions not making clothes. It was about ninety centimetres square and had a black, softer material circle sewed in the middle. Sherlock turned it over to check the other side, finding it blank. He held it closer to the faint light. He ran his hand around the circle that nearly met each of the squares flat edges. He gave it a sniff and then a lick.

Sherlock had no idea what its purpose might be.

He rolled it up, stuffed it back in place and looked around the kitchen. It was more stocked than he thought it was going to be. She liked to bake. Cakes mostly but other deserts as well.

Finding little of interest, Sherlock made his way as silently as he could to the bedroom. He stuck his head into the bathroom. It was exactly as he had anticipated. Loo roll, shampoo (a no name brand with no flowery smell), no conditioner, same no-brand body wash, roll on deodorant and a hair brush. There wasn't even a bottle of bubble bath. It looked more like the bathroom him and John shared than what you might expect from the average woman.

Her bedroom door was closed. As he approached he heard her bed squeak again as she moved. Pausing a moment, Sherlock ascertained that she was still asleep. He gently turned the door knob and pushed the door open.

It creaked slightly and he froze again. He didn't know if she was a heavy sleeper or not. She hadn't complained about his violin and he had been playing it practically nonstop since she had arrived.

When the door was open enough he realised why.

She slept with earplugs in. Her hair was still pulled up in a loose bun but it was hastily falling apart in her sleep. Vieve's head poked out as the covers were wrapped securely around her. She resembled, somewhat, a sausage.

Whereas the rest of the house was black and white, her bedroom had splashes of orange in it. Her bed spread was a peach and burnt orange zig-zag pattern and there was an orange scarf placed across the bedside table. The bookshelves were the same black vinyl on cheap chipboard but where the ones in the living room were solid books, these were interspersed with foxes of all shapes and sizes. A china fox family consisting of mother, father and three cubs sat at eye level on the shelf next to him. Two shelves down a plush fox with huge eyes stared up at him. It wasn't just assorted fiction in there either. She had a vast collection of comic books.

This was one of the main odd things about her. There were elements to her that she should have grown out of by now.

He supposed maybe he wasn't one to...

The alarm clock on her bedside table distracted him. He'd seen this model before. A deaf university student had been kidnapped. Turned out it was all some elaborate prank, apparently she was mad at her mother, but he'd seen the girls dorm room. She'd had the same kind. It didn't make a noise to wake someone up, but it began flashing three different coloured bulbs.

The ear plugs weren't new then. They weren't a response to his violin as he had assumed. Vieve had slept with ear plugs for a while. Inspecting the clock, which wasn't set to go off, Sherlock saw that it was at least two years old.

Sherlock looked down at her sleeping face. She was laying on her belly, her face turned to him. Now he was closer he saw the ear to the battered fox he'd seen that first day was tucked under her chin.

Her nose scrunched up and a slight wrinkle of a frown creased her face. Sherlock worried she'd sensed him somehow and stood back at his full height. Leaning over her as she slept was probably a bit not good.

And Sherlock, for once, had no idea what she might do if she did wake up.

Mrs Hudson would scream until she realised it was him and then scream at him some more. John was likely to punch him in the face before he knew where he was, especially if he was having one if his nightmares. Then John would lecture at him about personal space and boundaries once he'd calmed down.

Lestrade would reach for his personal weapon that he kept by his bed, then ask Sherlock if it was a danger night. Not that he'd ever done that before but Sherlock imagined Lestrade's mind would jump straight to the drugs. Molly would probably give a yelp and then ask him what he needed.

But Vieve... Vieve who had laughed when she found him going through her personal belongings. Vieve who had surprised Mycroft. What would she do?

Sherlock stood there for a while going through scenarios. He didn't let himself slip completely into his mind palace. Instead he watched her steady inhalations, the way her curls shifted on the pillow, the way her face eventually unwrinkled and slipped into a peaceful look of contentment.

It wasn't until his eyes idly slipped to her strange alarm clock once more that he realised that John would be waking soon. He had to be back upstairs; sitting in his chair, his hands steepled beneath his chin or laying out on the couch, deep in his mind. Possibly even sitting at his microscope pretending that he had spent the night looking at his slides, not waiting for his neighbour to fall asleep so he could look around her place.

Why didn't he want to leave?

Was it because he knew she wouldn't wake for hours? Did he want to be there when she woke up to test his theories? He had come up with several. She had training. It might all kick in. Krav Maga was a deadly art. Maybe she'd just rub her eyes and ignore him. Wait for him to announce his intention in someway. Was it possible she'd think it was funny, like before? He doubted that one alot.

Sherlock pried himself away from her, closing the door behind him. Everything was how it was when he arrived. She, like John, would have no idea he had ever been there. He locked the door after himself and managed to just collapse on his sofa when he heard John's alarm begin to chime.

Sherlock wondered if he would have to trick John into inviting Vieve to dinner again or if he should just wait for the inevitability?

Vieve noticed almost immediately when she woke up that afternoon. He'd left his finger marks in the chalk on her wall. After looking around she found that everything was still in it's place apart from her circle mat, which was improperly rolled.

She emailed a locksmith. When he'd shown up and fitted her knew lock, Sherlock had shared a look with her that may have been surprise.

He came down to her flat a few times after that. When she was awake. They talked about his experiments and the minor cases he was chasing. It was interesting and he liked it when she asked intelligent questions. She told him about the science fiction book she was writing and Sherlock paid particular attention to the language she had been crafting for the aliens. She found herself debating syntax and grammar that they were inventing as they went. Explaining cultural significance of the words and rules she had made up already.

A few uneventful weeks later, Sherlock paced up and down in front of her chair while she proof read a second draft that had to be done in two days time.

He was telling her about his latest series of 'boring' cases.

"So that is why I am going to Belarus in four hours." He finished.

"Do you really think it's worth the travel?" She asked without looking up. "It doesn't sound like a very... Stimulating case."

Sherlock made a dismissing motion with his hand. "The details are all too vague. And anything to get me out from under this miasma of boredom."

Vieve looked up momentarily focusing on his hands and the swish of his silk dressing gown.

"You finished your experiment with the saliva coagulation?" He had been regaling her with his hypothesis the other day.

Sherlock sighed. "No, I'm having to wait. Molly says she'll probably have a head for when I get back."

He paced back and forth once more.

"Maybe you should get another chair. For guests." The silent _for me_ didn't go unnoticed.

Vieve looked up and considered her flat. It was set up much the same as her old place. Although Baker street's living room was slightly bigger. She could afford to move her comfy chair and lamp back a bit towards the desk and get another armchair. She imagined Sherlock throwing himself in it at four in the morning and demanding some entertainment.

She allowed a twitch of a smirk as she looked back down at the screen and carried on reading.

"Maybe." A comfortable silence fell around them. "What are you going to do on the plane?"

Sherlock hummed his displeasure. "Probably escape to my mind palace after I've deduced and deleted everyone on the plane."

It still amazed her how he could do that. Delete things. There was plenty she wished she could forget. But she remembered everything since she was four years old. Things before that were spotty but there, growing more distant the further she went back.

Sherlock arrived back from Belarus in a worse mood than when he left. Vieve was alerted to this by the sound of gunshots ringing through the house. As she left her flat, John came through the front door and ran up the stairs ahead of her towards the sound.

Vieve followed with a measure of wariness until she saw it was only Sherlock shooting the wall. He was bored. She watched Sherlock sulk with amusement she didn't let break across her face. John didn't find it nearly as funny and stalked back out again, probably to the doctor lady he was seeing.

"Play a game with me Sherlock." She called from the doorway after the door slammed shut behind John.

Sherlock didn't turn back to her, the was busy watching John go down the street. Mrs Hudson came up the stairs with a yoo-hoo and a 'hello dear.' Vieve stepped to stand in the middle of the room next to the coffee table. Mrs Hudson wittered on until she left for the kitchen. His head had arrived.

"We could play the lying game..." She pressed again. "Or break into Mycroft's and swap all the sugar for salt. His security has got to be a challenge."

He finally turned to acknowledged her with an amused smirk.

"One would think."

And then the windows exploded in on them, knocking them off their feet.


	4. Boredom Desists

His ears were ringing and the surface under his head was warm and moving. Like a person. Genevieve. Explosion.

The ringing was making his head hurt. He felt rather than heard the grunt he released as he put his hands on the carpeted floor. His left hand pinched as he pushed himself up. With his knees under him he looked down and saw a splinter of glass sticking out of the palm. He pulled it out, ignoring the trickle of blood that followed.

He looked down at Genevieve, whose shins he still straddled. He could practically see the reboot across her face, which had a cut across her cheek that was already clotting, as she took in the new situation. She raised her arms up and checked for wounds. Quickly assured she wasn't gushing blood, she swiftly went over her own body, checking her neck before moving her head to give it a thorough running over too.

Sherlock's brain was still catching up. Why was he being so slow? Head injury? He began his own surreptitious examination. His head seemed intact and he was sure the pain was just a head ache from the hateful screeching noise running through his brain.

She turned her attention to him then.

"Are you okay?" She shouted over the ringing as she ran hands over her torso.

It was a practised hand, like a doctor. Was John here? Wasn't he somewhere else? Systematically checking the quadrants in the same way an A&E doctor might if they suspected trauma to the abdomen. Where had she learnt that? Did she suspect abdominal trauma? From what? Then he remembered that he had fallen face first into her.

No. He didn't fall. There was glass covering the floor. As the ringing lessened his brain sped up and seemed to regain proper function. There was an explosion across the street. Genevieve was clearly fine but what about...

"Mrs Hudson!" He yelled as loud as he could.

She was at the back of her flat when the explosion occurred, she was likely fine from the initial blast but what about shock or something falling on her.

"Mrs Hudson!" He shouted again, pushing himself up and launching himself at the doorway.

There was sound behind him but couldn't tell what was being said. He'd stepped in glass to get out of the living room but he ignored it.

What was the cause of the explosion? Was he the target? If he was there could be men converging on the building as they spoke and he wouldn't have been able to hear them over the incessant ringing. He saw a flash of auburn hair in his peripherals as he ran down the stairs. Genevieve was following him.

Mrs Hudson's door opened before he reached it. She was shaking and there were tears in her eyes that fell the second she saw him.

"Oh Sherlock, are you alright? What about you dear?" Sherlock had to read her lips as even this close he couldn't hear her.

"Sherlock, your back is bleeding!" Shouted Genevieve almost in his ear as she came up behind him, before he could reply.

That set Mrs Hudson into a bigger panic than before.

"I'll call an ambulance." She said before she tried to go back into her apartment.

He caught her shoulder before she could get to far.

"I'm fine." He stressed. "There will be ambulances on scene any moment now along with police, including my brothers lot no doubt."

She needed to be seen to for shock. And Sherlock wanted to find out what had happened across the street. It was too close to him to be a coincidence. The universe was rarely so lazy. Maybe it was the start of what he had been waiting for. Moriarty.

But no, he couldn't get too far ahead of himself. He needed data. He herded Mrs Hudson towards the exit and the road. He went to grab his coat and put it on but Genevieve stopped him.

"There's glass sticking out you're back. You'll push it in putting that on." She didn't shout that time. She spoke gently probably so even Mrs Hudson, whose ears hadn't suffered the brunt of an explosion, couldn't hear her.

He nodded and folded the coat over on arm. He wasn't leaving it behind.

The neighbourhood was all making their way out into the street, staring and muttering to each other. The street itself was covered in bits of façade and brick dust still hung heavy in the air. Sherlock couldn't hear sirens heading there way but there was little doubt they were. The blast would have alerted half the city.

"Stay with Mrs Hudson!" He told Genevieve. "Guard the house until my brother's men get here."

She nodded at him, putting a hesitant arm around Mrs Hudson's shoulder. He headed closer to the blast site. He couldn't risk getting too close. There was still the possibility of a secondary device designed to be triggered by first responders.

He could find no obvious evidence glancing over the site. There was no tell tale smell in the air to point him in the direction of a chemical compound. Just brick dust, a faint whiff of brunt rubble and the usual smells of Baker street. Nothing obviously suspicious. He would need to investigate.

But to do that he would have to wait for the scene to be cleared and half a dozen different teams to search the area, probably taking up half the night. That was even if he was granted access.

He trudged back over to Mrs Hudson and Genevieve just as the sirens and flashing lights zoomed around the corner. The street was flooded with emergency personnel. The Bomb squad, paramedics and eventually Mycroft's lot scampered to and fro. He sent Mrs Hudson and Genevieve down to where the ambulances had set up a triage. Genevieve had had to duck back into her apartment and came out with ear plugs that she put in before heading towards the blare of what sounded like a hundred sirens.

That confirmed Sherlock's suspicions but the mystery of Genevieve Greene would have to wait. With Mycroft's men there to secure Baker street, he was free to find who ever was in charge of this zoo so he could be brought in. He debated giving Lestrade a call, but the DI was likely to have already heard about it all even if this wasn't his jurisdiction.

Who ever was in charge wouldn't be on the front line, he would be further back, co-ordinating. So Sherlock headed in that direction. Unfortunately that was where the ambulances were situated. It was noisier there, but the ringing in his ears stopped him from accurately identifying and sorting the data. It was all a garble of shouting, sirens, engines. People ran back and forwards in no order what so ever and he was finding it difficult to track all the extraneous information and sift it out from what he was looking for.

He jumped when a hand rasped round his upper arm. Turning rapidly to his assailant, twisting away from the persons grip, Sherlock recognised the lurid florescent colours of a paramedic.

"Come on Mate." He read the paramedics lips as he motioned for Sherlock to follow him to an ambulance.

"No. I am perfectly fine." But it seemed he had said this too loud.

"You're ears are damaged. How close were you to the explosion." The man held Sherlock's arm again and gently but firmly pulled him again. "There's glass in your back."

Sherlock huffed and wiggled out of the man's grip once more but decided to follow if only so as not to make a scene as a few people were watching them then. At the earliest opportunity, he would slip away and find out what the hell was happening.

He was sat on the back of the rig as the paramedic climbed in to collect what he would need.

"I am not in shock! I do not need your stupid blanket thing! See to Mrs Hudson!" A shout from across from him made him lift his head to find the back of another ambulance housing Mrs Hudson.

She had a blood pressure cuff around her arm, above the elbow and a medic to her side reading the display. Genevieve was standing with her back to him, bellowing and waving a shock blanket at the other paramedic that was trying to attend to her. Her hair had been released from the top of her head and was cascading messily down her back.

Mrs Hudson had seen him and pointed him out to Genevieve who span round on the heel of her ridiculous penguin slippers.

'SH' She signed at him. 'Are you finally going to get your back seen to?'

Her BSL was fluid and flawless leading him to think it was in fact her first language as apposed to the spoken word. He'd seen no indication that her mother had been deaf, which was the most likely explination. He thought it possible that she had been non-verbal as a child.

"Yes this idiot insisted on dragging me over here." He said it out loud so the paramedic would hear it but he also signed the words at her.

'I don't think it's too serious. But maybe it is worrying that you can't feel it.' Her eyes flickered around the rig behind him and followed the paramedics movements as she signed but when he did, her attention would shift back to his hands.

"I can feel it. Seventeen minor lacerations. None very deep. Nothing serious as you said, It could wait for Molly or John. I should be investigating." He griped.

'They'll want to take you to A&E. They said if Mrs Hudson's blood pressure is in an acceptable range then she'll have to go to the community center they've set up for everyone to stay in.'

"Unacceptable." He rose his voice as the paramedic jumped out of the rig, jostling him slightly and impeding his view of Mrs Hudson. "I will get Mycroft to find you a room in a hotel. Mrs Hudson is not sleeping on one of those horrendous fold out beds."

The paramedic had to, unfortunately, cut his shirt off of him so he could begin treating his back when Sherlock refused to leave the scene. He was surprised the medic compromised with him, but that might have had something to do with one of Mycroft's men showing up to give him a sitrep and informing that Mrs Hudson's and Miss Greene's accommodation had been confirmed and a car would be waiting round the corner in exactly four minutes.

Genevieve refused and told them she would be accompanying him. When he'd raised an eyebrow in questions, she had simply replied that he didn't have John. He found himself slightly pleased but told himself it was just because he could observe her in this unexpected situation.

When John saw it on the news he almost couldn't believe it; except of course it was real. He didn't even give Sarah a proper good bye. He just rushed out the door replaying the night before as he stormed out. Arguing with Sherlock, completely ignoring Vieve who stood in the doorway as he brushed past.

What if one of them or Mrs Hudson was hurt? All the news had said was their was a phone number family members could call, not if there were casualties. Horrible news could await him but he couldn't know until he got there. He pushed past the police line and quickly let himself into 221 B Baker street. He clambered up the stairs two at a time calling their names. The windows had been blown in and glass would have gone flying everywhere.

He opened the door to find Sherlock in his chair, Vieve in his and Mrs Hudson sweeping up the glass that still covered the floor.

"Is everyone alright?" He asked moving first to Mrs Hudson, checking her over and then Vieve.

"Yes John, we're all fine." Sherlock groused annoyed at being interrupted.

"Really John. Just a few scraps and bruises." Vieve reassured him.

It was then that he noticed Mycroft, who barely gave him a glance, standing there but he ignored him for the moment. Blood and adrenalin was still rushing through his system from his frantic run all the way there. He scoured the three people who he shared the building with for any sign that they had been injured.

Vieve's hair was, for once, down and the mass of curls she usually kept restricted to the top of her head fell around her shoulders. Her clothing was rumpled and he thought it might have been what she was wearing yesterday. Her left hand was bandaged though, as was Sherlock's, likely a cut from all the shattered glass that was being cleaned up by Mrs Hudson, who looked fine. There was only one visible cut on her face but it had clearly been seen to and dressed. Sherlock had put on one of his expensive suits but he lounged in his chair with his violin in his lap, studiously ignoring Mrs Hudson's bustling and his brother's looming.

"I saw it on the telly." He said, now he knew they were fine and began looking over the flat for damage.

"Hmm? What?" Sherlock glanced about himself as though just remembering that there had been an explosion across the street. "Oh, yeah. Fine. A gas leak, apparently."

He turned to Mycroft, dismissing the whole event as unimportant. John supposed it was in Sherlock's world, there wasn't any murder or mystery after all.

"I can't." Sherlock pronounced, clearly carrying on with the conversation John had interrupted when he burst into the apartment.

"Can't?" Came Mycroft's clipped reply.

"The stuff I've got on is too big. I can't spare the time." Sherlock absently plucked at his violin.

John couldn't help the look of disbelief he shot Sherlock. Only the night before he had come home to Sherlock shooting the walls in a fit of boredom. They didn't have a case. And if it was from Mycroft surely it would be interesting, even if only for the time it took Sherlock to read the casefile.

Vieve caught his look and rolled her eyes at him. John felt himself redden a little. He supposed Mycroft hadn't missed his look either. If the older brother hadn't deduced it himself then he certainly knew now that Sherlock was case-less.

"Never mind your usual trivia. This is of national Importance." Mycroft insisted ignoring the both of them.

Instead of arguing, Sherlock just plucked at his violin once again. "How's the diet?"

John waited for Mycroft to bristle and give his usual snapping retort but was disappointed.

"Fine." He empathized and turned to him. "Perhaps you can get through to him, John."

"What?" Since when did Sherlock listen to anyone?

"I'm afraid my brother can be very intransigent." Mycroft continued slightly exacerbated.

Vieve snorted and quirked her eyebrow at Mycroft. "Do you often concede the point?"

Mycroft shot her a glare, which she ignored taking a sip of water. Sherlock sighed and plucked at his violin again.

"If you're so keen, why don't you investigate it?" Sherlock snapped in a way that told John he was getting bored with this conversation.

Mycroft looked mildly affronted as he folded his hands on his umbrella and began shaking his head. "No, no, no, no, no. I couldn't possibly be away from the office for any length of time- not with the Korean elections so..."

He stopped talking as both John and Vieve turned to look at him.

"South Korean elections aren't due for another two years. That Kim guy is a front, isn't he? I've always thought so. Military types, yes?"

John blinked owlishly at her. The silence of the Holmes brother's also spoke volumes. Vieve seemed to sense it and looked up from her glass. Her eyes flickered to each of them, before she got out of John's chair. She put her glass down next to her.

"Well, you're back now John, you can keep him entertained. I'm going to bed." And she left the room.

"I do not need to be entertained!" Sherlock shouted after her.

"See you later, Sherlock." John could hear the humour in her voice.

He took a moment to absorb the words.

"You're going to see her later?" John asked his curiosity heightened.

Of course he'd noticed when the violin in the middle of the night had decreased back to it usual amount but he hadn't realised that Sherlock interacted with their neighbour all that much. She'd only shared dinner with them twice since the first time and both times it had been John that had talked to her the most. Although, Sherlock didn't exactly ignore her like he did Sarah or other women in their life.

"What? Oh, I don't know. As I said. Busy." Sherlock sulked.

"Anyway," Mycroft cut across John's next question and reminding him of his presence. "This kind of case requires... Legwork."

Sherlock went on to deduce John's activities for the night and the brother's began arguing until Mycroft finally started describing the case he wanted Sherlock to look into. In the meantime John had reclaimed his chair and worked at stretching out his back which was kind of sore from sleeping on the sofa. He jumped when Mycroft threw the file into his lap.

"Andrew West, known as Westie to his friends." He began and went on to describe the civil servant who had nicked some top secret plans and ended up with his head smashed in.

Sherlock still continued to refuse the case and Mycroft left them with the file, probably knowing Sherlock would end up looking at it eventually once he was bored again.

"Why did you lie?" John asked him giving the file another once over before putting next to Vieve's glass.

Sherlock just looked at him as the door banged shut.

"You've got nothing on," He cajoled. "not a single case. It's why the wall took a pounding. Why did you tell your brother you were busy?"

Sherlock just shrugged. "Why shouldn't I?"

John would have said more but another thing was bugging him. Sherlock and Vieve? What exactly was going on there? He didn't get a chance to question it as by the time he'd figured out how he might go about asking, Sherlock received a call. They had a case.

The second Sherlock saw the pink phone he'd known it was beginning. What he had been waiting for. Moriarty was making his move. It had to be him. The phone. It was a call back to the case where he had first encountered the villain.

The pips were obvious but maybe they were a test of his breath of knowledge. Or were they a sign he wasn't up against one person. Maybe it was a secret organization. But no. This was the work of one man. One man at the top of an organization, yes, but they were all just minions. Special skills for specific jobs. People who only feed him information. Contacts within criminal enterprises.

But when Sherlock saw the picture that was sent, the first clue, he felt his stomach drop momentarily. His eyes searched for a clock. They'd been out of the house for twenty minutes. An inordinate amount of time to do many a criminal activity.

"I know where that is. We have to go John." He was already turning on the spot, coat flaring at his speed, and striding out of Lestrade's office.

"What is it, Sherlock?" John called and Sherlock could hear his footsteps catching him up and those of Lestrade as well.

He just passed the phone to John. His brain was busy trying to deduce the quickest way home from here. Should he get a taxi or just get Lestrade to drive them? It was too far to run, that was off the table immediately.

"I don't get it, Sherlock. Where is this?" John interrupted.

Sherlock had forgotten that John wouldn't recognise it. Because the picture was one of Genevieve's flat. And a new picture, taken within the last twenty minutes if he had to guess. Not the half stripped wallpaper and bare floors it used to have.

"221C, John."

A taxi would be quicker. He could direct them to avoid anything if he had to, but usually cabbies knew the streets of London almost as well as he did.

John's footsteps quickened as they exited the police station. He was filing in Lestrade about their neighbour. Sherlock hailed the cab.


	5. The Game Is On

Something touched her arm and she was immediately awake, knife in hand and pressing it to the intruder's jugular.

It was then that Vieve realised the intruder was Doctor John Watson. Not a man to break into someone's house unless it was a necessity.

"John?" She asked, pulling the knife away from him and removing her earbuds with the other hand.

She could hear Sherlock and another man in her living room, as well as Mrs Hudson in the hall outside. John looked at her anxiously. She frowned at him and got up following the voices out into the other room.

The other man was a police detective but that didn't draw her eye. What did were the trainers sitting on her arm chair that hadn't been there when she went to bed. Someone had broken in. Someone had broken in to leave Sherlock some kind of clue.

"Sherlock?" This time she said it demanding an answer.

But she didn't get one. A bright pink phone began to ring. Everyone was silent as Sherlock answered it and put it on speakerphone.

"Hello?"

"H...Hello Sss...Sexy." A woman's voice replied, clearly distressed.

"Who's this?" Sherlock asked.

This was a case. Sherlock had a case and it had invaded her Livingroom. Some time in the last hour since she'd gone to bed someone had broken in and left a clue for Sherlock. It had been more than a week since she had hoovered so it was doubtful she'd find a decent shoe print. She stepped past Sherlock and the Detective and hopped up the three steps that lead to her front door.

"I've sent you... a little puzzle... just to say... Hi."

The lock had been picked. By someone with slightly less skill than Sherlock as she could make out the barest of scratches.

Turning back into the room, she hurried past again started pulling off her pyjama shirt and throwing it in the corner of her bedroom. She heard John cough behind her as she kicked her bedroom door to behind her. She had to get changed but she didn't want to miss any of the phone call happening in the other room.

"Who's talking? Why are you crying?" Sherlock's baritone easily reaching her ears.

She grabbed a vest top throwing it over her head, quickly followed by a black knit jumper. Pulling open a draw she grabbed clean underwear before kicking off her bottoms. The jeans from yesterday were clean enough so she shimmied into them.

"I'm not... crying... I'm typing. And this stupid... Bitch... Is reading it out." The woman at the other end of the line snuffled clearly trying to hold back tears.

Vieve pulled her bedroom door back open and slipped into the bathroom.

"The curtain rises." She just heard Sherlock murmur.

Vieve frowned in response but hurried through brushing her teeth and throwing some water at her face. Her hair would take too long so she grabbed her brush, intent to give it a proper brush the second she had time. Instead she pulled out the bobble and ran her hands through it so she could scoop it on to the top of her head.

As she entered John was demanding to know what Sherlock meant. Sherlock's only answer was a cryptic line about expecting something like this.

"Twelve hours... To solve my... Puzzle, Sherlock... Or I'm... Going to be naughty." The woman broke into sobs as the call was ended.

Sherlock was already in motion. The phone was slipped into his pocket and he was leaning over the trainers again, swaying slightly to look at them at a different angle. Then, with gloved hands he was pulling out a large evidence bag out of his pocket and putting the trainers inside.

Then he was turning to charge back out of her house with a 'Come on John!' on his lips when she interrupted.

"I'm coming with you." She grabbed her keys and turned back to Sherlock.

"What?" Sherlock spluttered coming to a sudden stop.

"Sherlock, I can tell that whatever this is, it's big and it's happening in my living room. I'm coming." Vieve forced herself to hold eye contact with him to show him how serious she was.

He huffed.

"Fine! We don't have time for this."

She smirked at a slightly flabbergasted John and followed him out.

The three of them pilled into the cab. Genevieve had pulled down one of the fold out seats and sat across from them. Sherlock was staring out the window, no doubt reviewing the facts of the case or deducing people as they sped past or updating his map of London. Vieve was brushing her hair.

John couldn't believe Sherlock had just let her come. There was hardly any argument.

And clearly they knew each other better than he would have thought. Sherlock had been in her apartment. Sure he would have known her apartment from sight if he'd only been there once but John knew it was more than that. The way she'd spoke to Sherlock earlier when Mycroft had been there. They were familiar.

Before long they were pulling up outside St Bart's. Genevieve followed Sherlock out and John huffed and rolled his eyes as he paid the cabbie and hurried to catch up with them. Molly okayed there use of one of the labs, giving Vieve old questioning looks the whole time which the pair of them ignored if they noticed them at all. John could only shrug at her. He didn't know what was going on between the two of them either.

Sherlock threw himself into his work, taking evidence from the shoes and looking at it under the microscope. Vieve, on the other hand, settled on one of the tables against the far wall and promptly shut her eyes and tried to get a bit of sleep. John watched her for a while. After fifthteen minutes, she seemed to really be asleep, propped up against the wall, hands shoved firmly in her pockets and the collar of her coat pulled up around her chin.

John didn't think he'd ever since a civilian fall asleep like that.

John shook his head. He shouldn't have been thinking about that. It wasn't important right now.

"Who do you think she is?" He asked instead.

"Who?" Sherlock didn't look up from the microscope.

"The woman on the phone. The crying woman." Shouldn't that have been obvious?

"Oh. She doesn't matter. Just a hostage. No leads there." Sherlock dismissed.

"I wasn't thinking about leads!" He spluttered, not shouting in case he woke up Vieve.

"You're not going to be any use to her then." Sherlock mumbled.

It didn't matter that he'd known Sherlock for months now. It still shocked him that his room mate could be so cavalier about other peoples lives or feelings. John wasn't exactly a bleeding heart, worrying about people all over the place but still. To dismiss that woman all together. To hear her voice shake with fear and shrug it off like it meant nothing.

"Are, Are they trying to trace it, trace the call?" He stuttered.

"The bomber's too smart for that."

Sherlock's phone bleeped.

"Greene!" He shouted making John jump.

"Sir." Vieve answered as she came to all at once and was reaching across herself for a weapon that wasn't there.

She took in her surroundings and John saw her shoulders slump. It was such a textbook army response.

"Wanker. What?" She said without any real heat, as she pushed herself off the table and walked over to them.

"Pass me my phone." Sherlock commanded

She just huffed at him. "Where is it?"

"Jacket."

She just shook her head as she reached into his inside pocket to retrieve his phone. John watched as Sherlock eyed her as she leaned into his personal space without actually touching him. She pulled his phone out unlocking it.

"It's from your brother. Wants a sitrep. Is this about what ever he wanted you to investigate?"

"Delete it." Sherlock switched the slides under the microscope.

Vieve shrugged and John watched her type.

"Delete it?" He couldn't help exclaim.

"Missile plans are out of the country by now. Nothing we can do about it now."

"Well, Mycroft thinks there is. Must be important. " He insisted.

"He has texted you eight times. Should I delete all of them?" Vieve asked, scrolling through Sherlock's texts.

Sherlock nodded at her before turning back to John "If it's so important, why didn't he cancel his dental appointment?"

"His what?" Sherlock had skipped a step in the conversation again.

Sherlock sighed as though it was obvious

"Mycroft never texts if he can talk. Look, Andrew West stole the missile plans, tried to sell them, got his head smashed in for his pains. End of story. The only mystery is this: why is my brother so determined to bore me when somebody else is being so delightfully interesting?" He informed John without looking up.

"Try and remember there's a woman here who might die." Because he really thought his room mate could stand to be reminded.

"What for? This hospital's full of people dying, Doctor. Why don't you go and cry by their bedside and see what good it does them?"

Before he could form a proper response, the computer began beeping

"Ah!" He exclaimed as the door opened behind them and he raced over to the computer followed by a curious looking Vieve.

John turned and saw it was Molly. He gave her friendly smile that she didn't see. Sometimes, with Sherlock in a room, John felt became practically invisible.

"Any luck?" She asked hesitantly her eyes drawn back and forth between Sherlock and Vieve, who were standing quite close together.

"Oh, yes!" Sherlock confirmed without looking up from the computer him and Vieve were crowded around.

Knowing him he might not even be aware Molly had entered the room. As he also probably hadn't noticed the man who stuck his head through the door after her. Sherlock was to busy moving between data. He switched out the slides again.

"Oh, sorry. I didn't..." The man stutter, hovering in the doorway as if he didn't know whether to leave or not.

Molly span round and greeted him enthusiastically.

"Jim! Hi! Come in! Come in! " Molly grabbed his hand and pulled him forward. "Jim, this is Sherlock Holmes."

"Ah!" He cried in recognition.

Molly turned to him, "And, uh... Sorry?"

John blinked a moment before he recovered. They had been introduced before when Sherlock and him had come to pick up some body parts.

"John Watson. Hi." He shook the guys hand but Jim wasn't very interested either.

"Hi." Jim turned back to give Sherlock a long look. "So you're Sherlock Holmes. Molly's told me all about you. You on one of your cases?"

Looking up at Sherlock, John caught Vieve watching the interaction. There was a slight smile playing on the edge of her lips.

"Jim works in I.T. upstairs. That's how we met. Office romance." Molly informed them and Jim chuckled along with her.

Sherlock glanced up from his microscope, looked Jim up and down, before returning to the ever present Work.

"Gay."

John felt the sudden tension in the room as though it were a physical thing. Maybe he should get used to Sherlock just saying things guaranteed to wind everyone in the general vicinity up.

"Sorry, what?" Molly spluttered, cutting the silence.

"Nothing. Um, hey." Sherlock, for once seeming to sense that he'd put his foot in it, tried to recover.

"Hi." Jim just smiled at him and leant on the side, sending a tray clattering to ground, which he quickly replaced. "Sorry. Sorry! Well, I'd better be off. I'll see you at the Fox, 'bout six-ish?"

"Yeah!" Molly called after him as he made a hasty exit.

"It was nice to meet you." Jim said across the room, clearly aimed at Sherlock but the detective took no notice.

"You too." John replied hoping he'd take the hint.

He finally left. Instantly Molly turned back round to face Sherlock.

"What d'you mean, gay? We're together." She demanded.

"And domestic bliss must suit you, Molly. You've put on three pounds since I last saw you." Sherlock gave a feeble attempt to change the subject.

"Two and a half." She disagreed.

"Nuh, three."

"Sherlock..." John warned because picking on a woman's weight was just not on.

"He's not gay. Why do you have to spoil...? He's not." Molly insisted, clearly hurt.

"With that level of personal grooming?" Sherlock questioned in that voice that said he was right and how can't you see it?

As Molly got more visibly upset, John felt the need to defend her in some way. It wasn't her fault.

"Because he puts a bit of product in his hair? I put product in my hair."

"You wash your hair." Sherlock looked up at him with frown. "There's a difference. No-no – tinted eyelashes, clear signs of taurine cream around the frown lines. Those tired clubber's eyes. Then there's his underwear."

"His underwear?" Molly asked hesitantly, embarrassed.

John sent a pleading look over to Vieve. But the woman was staring at the computer screen intently and probably doing all she could to stay well out of this.

"Visible above the waistline – very visible; very particular brand." Sherlock turned and lifted the tray Jim had knocked to the floor, revealing the slip of paper with a phone number written quite clearly. "That, plus the extremely suggestive fact that he just left his number under this dish here... and I'd say you'd better break it off now and save yourself the pain.

Molly chocked back tears as she ran out of the room.

"Charming. Well done." John sniped

"Just saving her time. Isn't that kinder?" Sherlock turned to him again.

Vieve snorted. "Kind is allowing people to live within their own delusions." She paused a moment as she drew once again to the table Sherlock was working at. "We're not bad people. But we're not particularly good either. That doesn't matter as long as we're kind. That means we don't call people idiots to there faces or mention people's secrets in public."

Sherlock's head tilted as he took in what she'd said. John could only hope it would stick there.

"You were quoting someone." Sherlock left the unasked question hanging between them.

She nodded, the corner of her lips twitched upwards into a smirk. "I was nine and I'd complimented Sgt Bowen's wife clear views on the futileness of monogamy and pointed out her husband's his mistress at a mixer. The affair was all anyone could talk about for six months but I got in lots of trouble for 'getting involved in adult things'. Jerry pulled me aside and told me what the problem actually was."

Sherlock gave a slow nod before turning towards John and shoving the trainers under his nose.

"Go on, then."

"What?" John was jarred at the sudden change of subject.

"You know what I do. Off you go." He insisted, shaking the trainers a little.

"No." he wasn't about to make a fool of himself.

Sherlock sighed and turned waving them at Vieve instead. She just rose an eyebrow at him.

"An outside eye, a second opinion. It's very useful to me." He cajoled.

She gave a very put upon sigh before pulling on the latex gloves Sherlock offered. She gave them a proper once over, even looking at the sole.

"The wear on the sole is even, suggesting only one owner walking in the same manner. They're big but they've got worn ink where a name was written on the inside so probably a boy between thirteen and sixteen. They're in good condition, he must have cleaned them, probably with a toothbrush as he got right round the eyelets. That's either dedication or obsession. But there is mud on them now so they were left them unexpectantly, definitely against his will, probably because the owner was killed." She looked up at Sherlock then.

"Good." He nodded.

"Umm... From your... Scans?.. Of the pollen in the mud." She pointed to the computer and the results that were still onscreen. "He was in Sussex and London. That's it."

"That's it?"

"Well, Genevieve; really well." He paused and John could sense a But coming along. "I mean, you missed some points of interest that have particular importance, but, um, you know... You got most of it."

John thought that was in fact the 'nicest' he'd ever heard Sherlock be. And he seemed was actually sincere and John could find no way which it could be part of con of some kind.

"The owner loved these." Sherlock carried on. "Scrubbed them clean, whitened them where they got discoloured. Changed the laces three... no, four times. Even so, there are traces of his flaky skin where his fingers have come into contact with them, so he suffered from eczema. Shoes are well-worn, more so on the inside, which means the owner had weak arches. British-made, twenty years old."

"Twenty years?" He interrupted.

"They're not retro, they're original." Sherlock whipped out his phone and showed him a website with a picture of the shoes, the image gone again before he could register much else. "Limited edition - two blue stripes, nineteen eighty-nine.

"But there's still mud on them. They look new." He insisted, looking at the trainers once again.

"Someone's kept them that way. Quite a bit of mud caked on the soles. Analysis shows it's from Sussex, with London mud overlaying it as Miss Greene pointed out." He nodded at her. "South of the river, too. So, the kid who owned these trainers came to London from Sussex twenty years ago and left them behind."

He was muttering mostly to himself but as usual John still listened.

So what happened to him?" He asked to draw the detective back to them.

"Something bad." He answered. "He loved those shoes, remember. He'd never leave them filthy. Wouldn't leave them behind unless he had to. So, a child with big feet gets...Oh."

It was the soft oh of a realisation. It was usually followed by a louder OH! And a swish of the detectives coat as he explained to John the 'obviousness' of what he had worked out. But the second Oh! was absent this time and the detective was as still as a statue.

"What?" He prompted after a moment where it was made clear neither Sherlock or Vieve were going to say anything.

"Carl Powers." He detective answered in almost a whisper.

"Sorry, who?" He had to ask as the name wasn't familiar.

"Carl Powers, John." He insisted a though that would make a difference to John's recollections.

"What is it?" He had to ask because Sherlock was being odd, even for Sherlock.

"It's where I began." Then he did swirl on his heel, flaring his coat in his wake and stormed through Bart's to get them a taxi.

As usual John was left to catch up but, looking over at Vieve who shrugged, at least he had company this time.


End file.
